The Sword

by J. M. Kaukola

  Sergeant Clausen had warned her, hadn't he? “Know your line, and never cross it.” They’d both crossed it, hadn't they? He was a traitor, she an enabler. Both of them lain down before a State that necessitated their damnation. Eyes forward, Rey.

  Raschel held the door to the flitter open, a display of uncharacteristic courtesy. Know your line. The city lights flickered and failed on the horizon. Disregard the leverage. Focus on the mission.

  She kept her pace martial, confident.

  The door closed, and she swung into her seat. Raschel sat across from her. He set a harness kit on his lap, and pulled out a patch. As if he’d just noticed, he said, “Your suit's a little torn.”

  “Gunfight, remember?” She countered with a professional smile.

  “Ah. Almost forgot.” He said, and passed her the self-sealing fabric. “We can patch that.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She took it from him. “Have to look the part, right?”

  He nodded, and asked, “It's the little things, Rey. It’s the little things.”

  The flight passed in silence.

  Emergence 0010

  In the frozen heart of the demilitarized zone, at the precarious edge of a frozen ocean-side cliff, Brigadier Jonathon Harper was committing the most flagrantly, blazingly, stupid decision of his previously idiocy-free career. There were plenty of good reasons to turn around. It was miserable, cold, and wet. The winds howled over the shoreline, rushed up the sheer rock-face, to flee the steel-gray tides. The fog was thick enough to choke, and it froze on everything it touched. Water came up from the churning engine below, and ice fell back from the gunmetal skies. The airlock behind him was dry and warm.

  All he had to do was turn around. Turn around, and leave this frozen hell. Turn around, and let his teams do their job. ASOC EUROCOM Teams Four and Nine stood ready and willing. They had maps of Radek’s seized compound, enough firepower to level it flat. If he gave the word, they could sweep that prefab complex in record time. One word, and he’d be rid forever of Ishtan Radek and his Path. One word, and it would be done. They’d probably even save most of the hostages. All Harper had to do was decide that this cliff was too tall, these frozen rocks too precarious, or the weather too bitterly cold. All Harper had to do was stop walking.

  Of course, that would mean a war.

  Which was exactly was Radek wanted. The man was a fanatic, but not an idiot. Harper had studied the old wolf for too long to believe his enemy stupid. Radek would know he couldn’t keep those hostages. He would know his position was only temporary. He would know the Authority’s response, Jonathon Harper’s response. No quarter. Smooth, clean, and professional. Radek would know how this would end, and he would know how his own people would respond. He’d get his war.

  Striker’s war.

  That was Harper’s only card. The reason he marched across this treacherous cliff, dressed for parade and carrying only his pistol, was the slim bet that Radek hated being manipulated into someone else’s fight almost as much as Harper did.

  Through the fog and crashing, sleeting surf, he could see the edge of the Path compound. Squat prefabs hunkered against the gray-stacked sky. Between the pillboxes, Path guards stood vigil, weapons plainly drawn, a thrown gauntlet towards the Authority sharpshooters and drones. Any excuse for another go-round. The First War had been a tragedy, the Second a catastrophe. With each territory lost, with each bitter defeat, the Path grew more radical. Rational, political goals gave way to fervor and apocalyptic confrontations. The Path of the First War had been a confederation, of all who opposed the Authority’s ascent. The Path of the Second had been a theocracy, full of thunderous vision and terrible will. What remained, but madmen?

  All I have to do is turn around.

  He crossed over thin grass, shoots of green that grasped for the trickles of sunlight between in the storm clouds. The rocks were slick, the green spaces sparse, and every bit of it sharp. The stone shone wet black, crowned in frosted white, split by spiderweb-threaded puddles, half frozen in the shadows. The air was like soup when he breathed, heavy with salt and churned dust. He took his time, and picked his footing. The canted rocks were a deathtrap, the icy waters deceptive. He made his progress in centimeters.

  His boots, gloss black when he’d left the airlock, were now caked in frozen grime. His nose and ears were frozen, and his chest coated in sweat. Full dress wasn’t made for this environment. His medals pulled on his jacket, the high collar dug into his neck. He was an easy target. All any sniper had to do was aim for the mass of silver-on-black, settle aim on the intersection of shoulder-belt and medals, and give one gentle squeeze. Even if they missed the shot, he’d never get away. This was a uniform fit only for black tie dinners, but it would have insulted his “host” to show up in anything less. He wasn’t sure what irritated him more: the chafing from chest-high pants under his jacket, or that he had to care what Radek thought.

  He grew close enough to see the guards, eye to eye. They waited, and watched him. Their weapons stayed readied, but not aimed. Not a summary execution, then. He strode up to them, as commanding as he could manage, and stopped, ten feet short. The one on the right gave him a curt nod. Both were dressed in the spartan dress whites of Path soldiers, heavy coats with name, rank, and unit sewn in, cinched by a belt, and topped with a heavy cap that was both a dress covering and insulation. It was a uniform born out of austerity and utility. Harper had to admit a certain level of professional jealousy.

  The one who’d nodded, stepped forward. The young man’s eyes were cold, gray, his face boxed in by a neatly trimmed beard and ringed in frost. Those eyes were like searchlights, out of the shaded angles of the guard’s face, and they never left Harper. Up, down, back up, Harper felt the scan. The guard greeted him, “Welcome, Brigadier. Your purpose?”

  “You invited me.” Harper stated.

  The guard nodded again, and slung his rifle over his shoulder. The weapon hung, his right hand came to rest on the pommel. Monoblade. Of all the stupid, excessive- Harper’s thoughts were interrupted as he noticed the engraving on the hilt. Lines of silver woven into a purifying flame. No. No. It couldn’t be. That would be crazy. Harper met the guard’s eyes. Cold, gray eyes. Heavy, hooked nose-

  “Thomen Radek.” Harper surmised.

  Thomen nodded, this time from the shoulders, and replied, “I speak for my father.” His words were clean, nearly unmarred by the linguistic drift of the biodomes. The boy was well taught.

  For the briefest moment, Harper wondered if he might get to his pistol before Thomen could draw that damnable sword. He wondered if Major Lagauche watched from the safety of the prefab. Another path had opened: seize the boy, offer an exchange of prisoners, and negotiate from strength-

  That would be idiocy. He was committed.

  “Do you want my pistol?” Harper asked.

  “No.” Thomen replied. “Keep it holstered until you are called. Do you wish to clean your boots before we enter?”

  Really? Harper raised one eyebrow. Clean my sodding boots? He forced a gracious smile, and asked, “Do you have a rag?”

  The mud came off quickly, but the waterline would need polish. It must have satisfied Thomen, because he gave a nod, and motioned for Harper to follow. “Come, Brigadier. The trial awaits.”

  The airlock irised open, and Thomen glanced back, his face expressionless, and asked, “Do you know why you are here?”

  “To settle a matter.” Harper answered.

  Thomen let out a grunt, perhaps a short laugh. “A matter.” He echoed, as he led Harper into the compound. The halls were empty, desks turned out into the corridors and stacked as makeshift barricades. Path soldiers, gray faced and grim, lined the walls, hard eyes tracking his every step. Harper met them, and hoped they read his intent as strength, rather than arrogance. To Thomen, though, they nodded. Like a sea and a passing wave, each gave his escort a short bob of the eyes. They adore him. Christ. Just like his father.

  He watched the way Thomen walked, the
powerful, burling strides, as if he was powering through headwinds, the calm surety in every motion. Every movement was economic, efficient. Every action was deliberate. This warrior culture nonsense is going to bite us all in the backside, sooner than later. As if struck by the icy spray outside, he recalled why he was here. It will bit us very soon, indeed, unless I win this.

  They stopped at the door to the conference room, now flanked by soldiers at ready. Thomen glanced him over, one last time, as if inspecting a raw recruit. He gave a nod, a heavy breath, and admitted, “You face death well, Brigadier.”

  “Thank you.” Harper answered. There weren’t many good responses to that type of statement, so he may as well be courteous. “Although I do hope to dissuade your father from anything rash.”

  Thomen’s heavy eyebrows raised, just slightly, and he countered, “Your crimes are many, and you do not answer to my father, alone. You answer to the judgment of a martyred people, Brigadier. Nor do you stand alone. For as my father stands as judge for the silent, so you stand trial for the institutions which bore you.” His voice was like steel, cold and hard, but he softened, slightly, to add, “Take pride, Brigadier. You are one of the few worthy to stand for judgment. Many are beneath even the sword’s mercy.”

  “I brought pistols.” Harper noted, dryly.

  Thomen nodded, and pushed through the doors.

  The conference room, like the halls before, had been stripped barren, and reduced to a bunker. The table, mounted into the floor, was empty, and at its head, Ishtan Radek waited. Time had not been kind to the elder Radek. A lifetime of war, and the privations of the biodomes, had carved their toll onto his features. Deep crags cut his skin, like canyons, and his carefully trimmed beard was shot through with gray. His nose and cheeks were pocked and red from deep frosts and poor medicine, but his eyes - his eyes - were bright as the day he’d taken his commission, a young fire-eater in the army.

  Radek stood, and those brilliant, cold eyes flashed. He did not use his hands when he rose, but stood, trembling with barely contained fury, behind the expansive table. With careful, deliberate grace, he drew his sword, the monoblade nearly cutting the air as it released from the maglock harness. He leveled it, accusingly, at Harper, as the guards slammed the doors shut. “Judgment.” Radek thundered. “Is due.”

  It took every bit of Harper’s considerable reserve to not react to the theater. He stood, his hands at his side, and concentrated on not letting his fingers twitch, or his eyes shift. Watch the room. Watch the eyes. Roll with the punches. Look for weakness. This is a battle.

  “Speak!” Radek demanded, and struck the table with the hilt of his sword. The smartplas warped, shattered, the display boards giving out in a rain of silver sparks. “You know why you are here! Speak to it!”

  From behind Harper’s ear, Thomen whispered, “Do not try his patience.”

  Harper stood silent.

  Radek advanced around the table, his steps flowing, like an old lion on his last hunt, mustering every ounce of grace. The old man demanded, “Why are you here? If you do not speak, then why have you come? Is this mockery?” He used his words like a hammer, bludgeoning Harper with every syllable. The guards on the wall stood still and solemn as statues, witnesses. “You would mock us, in this hour?”

  “No, Patriarch.” Harper answered. “I came alone, as requested. I will hear your charges.”

  “Why?” Radek asked. “If you will not answer, then why have you come?”

  “You asked for a trial of blood. I came to honor that.”

  Radek closed, circled Harper as he spoke. His eyes were locked on Harpers, his hand on his sword, but the blade was turned away. No overt threat. Not yet. I have room to maneuver.

  Radek scoffed, and asked, “Honor? You spit on honor.”

  Harper chose his words carefully. Any misstep here, and his head would be on the floor before he felt the cut. “I do not spit on honor, Patriarch. I live it. Mine is different. Similar, but different. Another creed, but one just as true.”

  “And yet, you stand here, for actions that are as far from honor as a man could find. Why?”

  “First, I am here to duel you, if you insist upon it-”

  “I do.”

  “-but more, I am here to talk.” Harper stated. That’s it. Win or lose, on his answer. A question, or a sword? Which do I receive?

  Radek stopped his circling. His eyebrows raised, and he appraised his guest. On the wall, Thomen remained unreadable.

  Finally, Radek demanded, “Talk? What you possibly say, that would do anything but seal your sin?”

  The first threshold was passed. Harper met the Patriarch’s eyes, and continued his course of argument, “I know that you have evidence of a heinous crime. One committed by the Authority, against your people-”

  “Crime?” Radek asked. His voice was high, almost laughing, a fluted bottle in the frozen wind. “Crime? The outright slaughter of billions of men, women, and children? Crime? The word does not begin to embrace the enormity of your action, Brigadier. Your precious Provisional government, your whore of Babylon, murdered uncounted innocents in wholesale lots, in numbers more vast than-”

  “I know.”

  “You knew?” Radek asked, quietly. The crags on his cheeks seemed to darken as his eyes narrowed. “Oh, Brigadier, then we have much to discuss, on the subject of penance-”

  “I found out after you took the compound.” Harper said, and never looked away. Believe me. Please, believe me. “I fear it means little, but I knew I had to come here, the moment I learned of it. I will confess: I had planned on sending in my teams. You expected that. You knew I’d do it. We both know where that road would end. But then I saw, and I knew I had to come.”

  “Why?” Both Radeks asked as one, Thomen finally breaking from his silent vigil at the door.

  “Because I must answer for what was done, and I must prevent a further wrong.” Harper stated. Final play. All pieces in motion.

  “A reckoning is coming. Justice will be had, Brigadier.” Radek intoned. “You cannot stop it-”

  “You are being played.” Harper said the words, let them drop like a stone into deep waters.

  The room went silent.

  Harper continued, “I learned about Durandal, just hours ago. You learned, just hours before that. Am I correct?”

  Radek stared at him, and Harper could hear the wheels turning. The old man was crafty. He’d been one of the Path’s best generals, when they’d had armies. Finally, he nodded, and Harper pressed on, “I’d guess it was one of ours, right? A leak, that your men just happened to find. You poked at it, and it opened right up. Everything you’d ever wanted to hear, ever wanted to believe. Hard proof.”

  “You would call it lies?”

  “No. God, no-” Harper cut himself off, before he led into blasphemy in front of a hostile audience. “I wish it was, but I’ve seen the files… too much fits.” He cleared his throat, “But it was dead. Buried. For thirty years you’ve been alone in the wilderness, and no one ever knew a thing. Thirty years, these files haven’t existed, because the Agency buried this so deeply that only the dead knew. And then now, just now, it all lands in your lap. Doesn’t that make you want to know, why?”

  Radek’s face was stone. He stood, impassive, with only the slightest tremble in his jaw to mark that he drew breath.

  He broke the silence, and answered, “Someone else’s war needed fought.”

  “Striker.” Harper answered. “He’s alive.”

  From the wall, Thomen jolted, and spat, “The beast.” He glowered, and fixed his jaw.

  Radek’s eyes were nearly hidden under his furrowed brow, and he brought one hand up to stroke his beard, as he placed pieces into place. “An interesting gambit. I can see his hand in this, and I will not be his cat’s paw. But there is another player on this board, Brigadier, one pulling your strings.”

  “We have a unit pursuing Striker. They uncovered Durandal.”

  “And what will be done with it
?”

  “I don’t know, Patriarch. But it will not be buried. There will be answers.”

  Radek nodded, and turned away, with a quiet ‘pah’ to the walls. “This is not done, Brigadier.”

  “I am sorry, for everything that has-”

  “Save it. Sorry is for broken windows and misspoken words, not for a slaughter that would give the devil pause.” The tip of his sword bobbed as his hand trembled. “Tell your sorrow to the widows. Tell it to the orphans. Tell it to my men, burned to ashes in their beds. Tell it to every one of my people, that have shoved into this frozen hell on your lies, and left to wither and die. Tell them! Offer to them your shallow regrets!”

  Harper said nothing. He did not look away.

  “How can your apology fix anything? How can it save anyone from a lifetime of suffering and shame, eked out under the gavel of criminals? How can it save the dead?” Radek asked, his voice breaking. He didn’t sound like the old lion anymore, the Inquisitor, but an old man, wounded, barely clinging to the edge of control.

  “It can’t.” Harper admitted. “It can’t, and it doesn’t, but that is all I have, and I give it. I can’t change what happened. I can’t fix the crimes done to your people. But I can stand here, and tell you, I am sorry that we did this. Those who acted are not here to answer, so I will answer for them, because what they did cannot be allowed to stand, and it cannot be allowed to drive us back into another war, another round of suffering and slaughter. I stand here, and offer you my contrition. Can you forgive me, for the deeds of my forebearers?”

  Radek stepped back further, nearly leaning against the table, the sword down-turned. He asked, “And now forgiveness?” His voice wavered. “I expected many things, but not this.” He took a deep breath, glanced to his son. Finally, he stated, “Forgiveness is not mine to grant, for I am not the most aggrieved. But you speak truthfully, and with honor, and I cannot hold you to account for lesser men's sin.” The warlord sheathed his sword, judgment pronounced, “Your State is guilty, Brigadier, and it shall be called to account, but today, you are not my enemy.”